Michael Costaris

She called him a sexually transmitted disease. Carl doesn’t recall who she was, but if he did, he’d send her a bottle of Dom Perignon for Christmas. “I am an STD,” he says. “You say something sir?” Rufus asks. He turns his sweaty face to the back of the car and grimaces at the effort. His thick neck strains and his cheeks, bright red, match the Santa hat Carl has him in. But he smiles through the pain and awaits a response.  Carl hits the button. The partition slides shut. *** The gym is nearly empty. A lone muscle-freak deadlifts…